Chapter 11 #2
Immediate disappointment rushes over me, but I try to arrange my face in the most neutral of all expressions. “Oh—you’re competing again. When will you be back?”
Truett shifts his weight like he’s doing the math in his head and doesn’t love the answer.
“A couple days.” He lets out a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“It would be nice to come home tomorrow night, but I just know my dad is going to make me stay another day for the optional press interviews. He’s so damn overbearing. ”
I’m starting to see just how suffocated his father makes him feel, but with how easily he goes along with it, I can’t help but think Truett allows it to happen.
But I don’t say any of that, because it’s not my place. So, I nod, keeping a flat expression, even though my chest is tightening. It shouldn’t matter—him being gone for a few days. We’ve only known each other a short time, and yet the idea of the alley without him already feels… off.
“Well…” I steady my tone, “you are a professional athlete, after all. Aren’t interviews and tournaments, I don’t know, a part of your job?”
My bluntness catches him for a second. “I mean… yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“And it’s just one tournament, right?” The question hangs there, heavier than I meant it to be.
With a flood of worry, I can’t seem to push down this new idea of him choosing the USBC National Championship over helping me.
Choosing the one thing he said he wouldn’t do because he wanted to be there for Spare Time.
For my dad.
For me.
When he doesn’t answer, I shake my head and cut in, “Don’t worry about the alley.” A shiver slips up my spine, stronger than my ability to believe the words coming out of my mouth. “You won’t need it, but good luck. Focus on your matches. You’ll do great.”
Regret toggles quietly between us. His, for telling me about the tournament at all. Mine, for saying something I know isn’t true.
His eyes meet mine, softening for a beat before he looks away. “Yeah. Thanks.”
We drift into a quieter rhythm as we step up to the counter, the earlier energy thinning into something more subdued.
Truett hands over his coupon like he’s trying to grab on to that version of the morning again—like it still means something.
He looks way too satisfied when the employee scans it without a second glance.
I should feel the same. I’m committing to midnight blue, to a long night of painting, to something that’s supposed to matter.
But my attention keeps slipping.
To him.
The way he leans against the counter, fingers tapping idly, like he belongs on the lanes and not here. Like this is temporary.
He still showed up, though.
For me? The alley?
Why do I want it to be for me? Does he really have this much control over me in such a short amount of time?
I try to push that line of thinking far out of my mind. Because the truth is he’s still competing even when he told me he wasn’t planning on it.
Just a couple of days, like that’s not long enough for him to realize he can’t stop bowling for what… to help save a rundown alley? No. Winning this torment will make him fall back into it completely. I just know it.
He’s a professional bowler, for Christ’s sake. This is what athletes do. They play to win. And if he wins, then there will be nothing here to hold him back. There will be nothing to keep him here.
God, what am I doing? I’m already risking enough just standing here with him, shopping for the alley, letting myself get pulled in when I know exactly how this is going to end.
And I hate myself for feeling this way. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve had hope for something. Allowing myself to be fucking happy. What a joke.
My grip tightens slightly against the counter before I force it to relax. I should want him to go. To win. But why does it feel like I’m rooting against something at the same time? Hoping he gives it all up. Does that make me an asshole?
“Hey.” His voice pulls me back, and I realize I’ve gone quiet. I glance over to find Truett watching me more closely than I’d like, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking without having to say it. He already knows the answer, but he asks anyway. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I push off the counter, giving him exactly what he knew I would. “Just thinking about how much work I signed myself up for, but I’ve got to get it done.”
That earns a small laugh, which momentarily eases the tension in my jaw. “This definitely will be an all-night project. I’m sorry I—”
“Someone has to do it,” I interrupt.
Truett stiffens next to me. “Well, good thing you’ve got me to help you,” he nudges my shoulder, “when I get back, of course.” Both of us pretend we aren’t thinking of everything we’re risking.
I huff out a quiet breath and shake my head. “We can agree we don’t have much time, so I can’t wait a couple of days.” I force another shrug. “It’s fine. Thanks for helping me pick the paint.”
“I’m glad you appreciate my excellent taste—and, of course, my elite couponing abilities.” He tries to charm me, but even he knows the moment is gone.
“You do coupon well, but your taste remains to be seen.” A smile tugs at my mouth, knowing a part of me still very much wants him to choose me.
The employee calls out my name, and I step forward to finish the purchase, Truett stepping up beside me, each with two gallons of paint—the amount he promises is all I’ll need to cover the alley.
By the time I turn back around, the moment feels like it’s already passed, like we’ve reached the end of something I didn’t realize may have a time limit.
Truett looks at the clock behind the cashier, then looks back at me. “I should probably get going after we take these to your car.”
“Yeah,” I say, even though part of me wants to stretch this out just a little longer. “You’ve got… preparations.”
“Something like that.”
We head outside together, the heat already settling in despite the early hour.
His fancy car looks as out of place as ever in a parking lot like this, all sleek lines and polished red, while I stand there thinking about peeling wall paint and scuffed floors.
He moves between those worlds easily. I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in either of them. If I even fit.
Once we reach our cars, we load the paint into my trunk. I shove my hands into my pockets to keep myself grounded. “Text me when you’re back.” I’m aiming for nonchalant and hoping it sounds that way. There’s more I want to say, but the words don’t come.
“I will.”
The dread around us stays longer than it should, stretching just enough to make me think something else might happen—something more than a simple goodbye in a paint store parking lot. But then he smiles, easy and bright, and slides into his car.
“Don’t go changing your mind now and paint the place Barbie pink while I’m gone, Ken,” he says once the window is down.
I snort, stepping back. “That will never happen.”
He lingers for a second longer before pulling out of the lot, lifting his hand in a small wave. I watch until the car disappears. Then I exhale and roll my shoulders back, forcing my priorities back into place. Midnight blue. Four gallons of it. An entire alley to cover in one night.
Not exactly the kind of canvas I want.
I’d rather be working with ink. Skin instead of walls. Arms, backs, the curve of a shoulder, the soft buzz of a machine in my hand instead of a damn paint roller.
Something I know I’d prefer to spend all night doing. Something that actually means something to me.
Maybe I should call Damien. See if he can spare a few hours, or at least keep me company.
I’m sure he’d ask for some more of my time in return, sweeping the parlor’s floors and switching out used supplies with new ones.
It’d be another favor added to the list, but those are the kind I don’t mind owing him.
If I just keep moving, keep busy tonight, then maybe I won’t think about Truett not being here. Or even why I’m starting to feel like I need him to be.